


Cornucopia

by azriona



Series: Advent Calendar Drabbles 2015 [19]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Advent Calendar Drabble, Christmas pageant, M/M, Omega Verse, Parentlock, christmas nativity play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 11:38:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5455172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azriona/pseuds/azriona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bartholomew is in his class's Christmas play.  Chaos ensues, as chaos is wont to do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cornucopia

**Author's Note:**

  * For [earlgreytea68](https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlgreytea68/gifts).



> Day 19 of the Advent Calendar Drabbles for 2015. Today's prompt is from earlgreytea68, who is getting a very loose interpretation of a cornucopia. You know, in that there isn't actually one unless you count the mass of vegetables on the stage. Which I do. So there.
> 
> A brief look ahead in the Heart 'Verse, though it's not necessary to know anything about that to enjoy this; just know that John and Sherlock have a six-year-old son named Bartholomew.

“Explain to me again why we are here,” said Sherlock as the lights in the auditorium went down.

 

“Because we are supportive parents who want our children to feel good about the ways they choose to express themselves artistically,” said John, and he almost made it sound as if it wasn’t rehearsed.

 

The curtains parted, revealing the children already arranged on the stage.  They were mostly sitting or standing in their places, fidgety in the way that most six-year-olds tended to be fidgety, when asked to stand or sit still for a period longer than two seconds.

 

Most of the children seemed to be doing fairly well.

 

 _Most_ of the children.

 

“John,” said Sherlock, “you cannot possibly expect me to believe that Bartholomew actually _chose_ to dress as a potato.”

 

Bartholomew was on his back, amongst the other children who were sitting at the front of the stage, arms crossed over his chest and knees in the air, exactly as if he was contemplating a tantrum, but really was more likely counting the lights that shone above them, considering how he was squinting.

 

“I think he’s meant to be a Swede.”

 

“I don’t think Swedes are that color.”

 

“ _Shhhh_ ,” hissed a parent behind them, and John shoved his elbow into Sherlock’s side.

 

“…For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given….” another little girl was reciting.  Sherlock couldn’t be certain, but he thought she was meant to be a stalk of celery.

 

“Why does the Christmas nativity feature vegetables?” Sherlock whispered to John.

 

“Because they were sea creatures last year,” John whispered back.

 

“ _Excuse me_ ,” hissed the parent behind them. 

 

“Sorry,” said John quickly, and elbowed Sherlock again, who snorted and slid down in his seat.

 

Onstage, the children had stumbled to their feet and joined hands, ready to participate in some kind of dance in the round.

 

Most of the children.

 

Bartholomew was still in his position on the ground, and the children were one by one stepping over him, as if he was just another obstacle in their path not to be minded.

 

Sherlock sighed loudly, and slipped further down in his chair, until he was nearly as horizontal as his sulking son on the stage. 

 

“ _Boring_ ,” he said to the lights above the stage, and John sighed heavily next to him.

 

“Mummy,” said a small voice somewhere behind them, “why isn’t the potato dancing?”

 

“Potatoes don’t dance,” said Sherlock, at which point three things happened:

 

The little girl replied, as if Sherlock had suddenly made life’s entire purpose clear, “ _Ooooohhhhh_!”

 

The parent behind them hissed another angry, “Would you _please_ be _quiet!_ ”

 

And on stage, Bartholomew sat straight up and shouted, “I TOLD YOU!”

 

At which point three _more_ things happened:

 

The little girl who had been about to step over Bartholomew instead stepped directly into him, whereupon she fell right over him and tumbled to the ground, causing an avalanche of vegetables.

 

John doubled over in his seat, shoulders shaking.

 

And the already-disgruntled parent behind them let out a shout and sprung to his feet, “Your son tripped my daughter!”

 

The curtains fell, but whoever had decided to lower them clearly hadn’t taken the now chaotic presentation into account, because they would have fallen directly on the heads of the children still struggling to their feet had Sherlock not leapt up on the stage to catch it and hold it aloft.

 

“I told them potatoes not dance, Papa,” said Bartholomew while Sherlock struggled to hold up the heavy fabric.  He could already hear the shouting off stage from the adults who were trying to lift them up again.

 

“Potatoes _don’t_ dance,” John automatically corrected as he checked another child for concussion.

 

“I _knew_ you were a potato,” said Sherlock, satisfied.

 

 


End file.
